Hill of Grace (27 page)

‘That'll get a mention.'

William shook his head. ‘Just because we're few in numbers.'

‘Is this your whole following?'

‘We're a young movement.'

The reporter shrugged. ‘Taken, but people would tend to either agree or disagree. You've been at it for some time now.'

William seemed unconcerned. ‘Most come around slowly.'

‘Surely not.'

‘We need to explain ourselves.'

‘And this is where your . . .' he looked at his notepad, ‘
Play For
The Apocalypse
comes in?'

‘Yes.'

Seymour turned around and looked at Sarah. She shrugged, mouthing, What'd I say?

‘I'm looking forward to your play,' the reporter continued.

‘Perhaps you could do a preview?'

William realised he was losing his momentum. ‘It's not an entertainment.' He opened his Bible and continued.

Bruno and Edna wandered across Langmeil Road with their chairs. They set up just within ear-shot at the back of the paddock and topped up their mugs. ‘There,' Edna said, settling in, ‘he won't be able to see us from here.'

William wiped spits of rain from the page as he read. ‘“To him that overcometh will I grant to sit with me . . .”' But as he read, he thought of other things. Like how it wasn't his fault, how no one could inspire a bunch of duds like this, how Pastor what's-his-name didn't have Satan with his short-hand in the audience, how Vectis was a product of its time and how this was a product of his. But how this was another sign, how the low, contented hum of a world caught up in other things was a test set up for him. Which meant that when a car pulled up and two council inspectors alighted, he was ready for a fight.

‘Mr Miller, do you have a permit?' one of them asked.

‘A permit? Why? For standing in a paddock?'

‘Regardless. I'll have to ask you to stop. I have an application form you can fill out.'

He produced a yellow form and waved it in the air.

TANUNDA ORACLE
, 2 AUGUST 1951
A SOGGY START FOR THE MILLERITES

. . . at which point Mr Miller-Muller produced a document entitled
Augsburg Confession. He quoted a section (apparently based on
Acts chapter five) which said Christians were obliged to obey civil
authority only insofar as it agreed with the Bible. But when ‘civil
authority cannot be obeyed without sin, God rather than men
must be followed'.

At this point the inspectors, Mr Snow and Hobbs, explained
to Mr Miller-Muller that if he continued they would be forced to
fetch the police. ‘Dramatics,' Mr Miller-Muller replied, explaining
how the council was stacked with many of his detractors, several
of whom were also Elders at Langmeil church . . .

The reporter chose not to bring their names into it, going on to explain how council had already turned a blind eye to Mr Miller-Muller's posters and leaflets.

As the inspectors drove off, rain started to fall in a light shower. William was undeterred. ‘Jesus wants to know how much you love him: wet or dry, one or two arms, crippled with polio or riddled with the cancer. Jesus is Lord! Amen!'

And again, principally the Millerites. ‘Amen!'

The reporter covered his head with his jacket and kept writing. Bruno and Edna took their chairs and scurried back across Langmeil Road. A few of the onlookers competed for space under three umbrellas Bluma had handy, but when they ran off she gave them to Mary and Catherine and the children. Arthur, Seymour and Joshua shared the rain with William, standing with their arms crossed as they soaked through.

Bluma held the blackboard above her head but it did her no good. C'mon, William, she was thinking, we've heard it all before. But he wouldn't be moved. ‘This is a baptism of the faithful . . . rain down, rain down!' Looking up to the sky and opening his mouth. ‘Amen!'

The chorus had given up, defeated by cold rain which stuck shirts to backs.

Mary and Catherine had had enough. They took the children and ran back to Bluma's house. Bruno and Edna watched from their porch and couldn't believe what they saw. ‘It's like a cult,' Bruno whispered.

A police car pulled up on Langmeil Road but no one got out. Mary and Catherine and the children ran past them, slipping on the wet grass, splashing mud and laughing. The reporter saw the police, ran over and climbed in the back. ‘G'day, Dave.'

‘What's goin' on?'

‘Jesus this, Jesus that . . . I wouldn't get yourselves wet.'

At last William stepped down and stood beside his wife and three friends. ‘Unconventional,' Seymour said, smiling. As they walked back towards the house the rain stopped nearly as suddenly as it had started. An
Oracle
photographer arrived in time to snap William and the others talking to the police.

The next morning's paper showed this picture. The headline read ‘Millerites Defy Police'. Shaking his head as he showed it to Pastor Hoffmann the following night, Ron Rohwer said, ‘See, we were right to have done what we did.' Pastor Henry agreed, reaffirming how they'd tried everything to save him from himself.

. . . Mr Miller-Muller continues to spread discontent within the
Lutheran community. Some would say the debate he has generated
is healthy. Not so, says Pastor Braunack, head of the Lutheran
church in South Australia. He was one of the few who braved
the weather to hear William Miller-Muller speak. He said, ‘Mr Miller's
reasoning is all wrong. He has distorted the chronology of the
Bible to suit his needs. The Bible is full of dates which can be read
in a variety of ways. Unfortunately we have no control over
Mr Miller, he is a free agent. I only hope that those who listen to
him develop a healthy sense of scepticism . . .'

William bought every copy of the
Oracle
he could find. He kept one copy of the article to stick in his scrapbook and burnt the rest in a pile in his backyard.

The next morning Bruno walked to the offices of the
Oracle
and, finding the reporter, told him what he'd seen.

TANUNDA ORACLE
, 3 AUGUST 1951
EARLY GUY FAWKES FOR MILLERITES

. . . an anonymous source reports that William Miller-Muller pur-
chased more than three dozen copies of this newspaper yesterday.
The story as reported was entirely based on fact. Perhaps this is
what Mr Miller-Muller fears . . .

A few days later William wrote a letter to the editor threatening legal action. The reporter argued he hadn't even come close to defamation but was warned off anyway. Soon after, William saw Bruno in Murray Street. Stopping to shake his hand he whispered in his ear, ‘You'll be the first, Hermann,' and passed on.

Bruno returned home shaken. So convinced was he that William was wrong, he spent the rest of the week planting a row of oleanders down the fence-line. In a few years he'd be free of him.

Over the next few days, William's thoughts turned to Pastor Kavel, and how he'd been killed by the doubters of his own day. The story had it that Kavel suffered a stroke and was rushed to Dr Scholz's hospital. An Adelaide newspaper, the
Register
, believing him dead, published an obituary which concluded with the words: ‘Pastor Kavel's one folly was to predict and preach a second coming of Christ . . . to many of his followers, and the public at large, this made him a figure of ridicule'. The next day, Kavel, sitting up in his hospital bed, read his own obituary and started to fume, throwing his breakfast dishes across the room and dragging himself out of bed. He got to his feet, stood momentarily and dropped down stone dead, the blocked vessel around his brain breaking wide open like a split grape.

Chapter Twelve

William's vines started early. Buds opened and offered fresh, green shoots to the air; finding it warm enough, they mimeographed themselves into small leaves, tendrils and what would become new canes, growing out from rods and spurs which had been happily sleeping since May. It was enough to warm his heart, walking up and down between rows, re-tying loose canes and encouraging new leaves with the tip of his finger.

The sun came in the kitchen window, lying itself across Bluma's hands and up her arms as she washed dishes. The black kitchen's flagstones were forever cold, bringing up dampness from earth the sun never reached. It left the house with a musty smell she'd carry to her grave, like the miner's dug-outs she'd seen along the Burra creek on some dimly remembered holiday. Fire, or the smell of cooking food couldn't shake it.

Nathan had a week off, on full pay, something Lilli and the Apex mob couldn't boast. Bored by the end of the first day, he made for the Tanunda library, bypassing Marx and Mies van der Rohe for a volume of Bruegel paintings he guessed had never been opened, the spine cracking like dry chicken bones.

Apparently Bruegel had been to Tanunda. Edna was there as the
Head of a Peasant Woman
and the
Parable of the Blind
was a picture of the Millerites, stumbling down Langmeil Road on a Saturday afternoon, feeling about with sticks and falling over each other, staring up into the sky with skin-fused eyes in search of a God who'd abandoned them. The
Allegory of Lust
was Goat Square, market day, togs off, every man for himself. Nathan smiled as Seymour-as-a-lizard tweaked Lilli's nipples and his father, half pig, half fish, mounted a squealing Thea from behind as he ripped at her Apex uniform.

On Wednesday, the second day of spring, he accompanied his parents to the market in Goat Square. As they moved from stall to stall, tasting preserves and over-priced gourmet cheeses, Nathan said to his father, ‘Mr Drummond says my papers need to be done.'

William felt a cucumber and replied, ‘He does, does he?'

‘Have you read them?'

‘I've read them.' Talking to a young boy who'd been left in charge: ‘These are soft, you shouldn't be selling them.'

The boy shrugged. ‘They look okay to me.'

Passing on, William ignored his son, whispering to Bluma, ‘Was a time people would be ashamed to put that out.'

‘Dad.'

William toyed with him some more. ‘Your indentures? These oblige you for six years. Six years . . . not so long ago you couldn't commit – ' Bluma took his arm. ‘William.'

‘No, I'm not convinced – ' ‘Dad, you just have to sign them.'

‘I have to do no such thing. I have to exercise my judgement. If I don't believe . . .' He trailed off, stopping to haggle and eventually purchase glass-house tomatoes. Nathan watched him count his coins and wanted to push him into a pile of fruit boxes. Hate was a strong word and, considering his up-bringing, he thought he was a pretty reasonable person; but hate was the only word he could think of. Or was it disgust? William's fat, unshaven cheeks flapping like the waste of air he'd become.

As they walked along Nathan said, ‘I need my papers signed to continue.'

‘I know.'

‘Does this mean you won't sign them?'

‘For now.'

Nathan stopped. ‘They won't wait.'

But William kept walking.

In the middle of the square, where Maria and John Streets met, a group of Aboriginal women followed Pastor Henry towards a patch of crumbling concrete and stood waiting. They wore loose, billowing dresses which were dyed vibrant greens and yellows and reds; the parts of their bodies that showed were painted with Dreamtime water-holes and elongated wombats.

Earlier, they had emerged from the Langmeil rectory bare-breasted and Henry had had to explain to Pastor Flint (who'd been up north too long) that it just wouldn't do. Improvising with costumes from the Christmas Passion they soon had them covered, walking towards Goat Square bearing myrrh, incense and rhythm sticks. A pair of which Henry appropriated, clanging them together in a way the Rainbow Serpent could never imagine. ‘Thank you ladies and gentlemen.'

For a while the commerce stopped. Hats were adjusted, displays rearranged and tills counted as Henry continued. ‘Today we're lucky to have, as our entertainment, some ladies from Hermannsburg, in the middle of Australia. These ladies are from the Aranga – ' Pastor Flint stepped forward. ‘Aranda.'

‘Aranda tribe. Pastor Flint has brought them down in his bus.' Henry stepped back and put his arms around Pastor Flint and everyone applauded. ‘David, would you like to say a few words?'

The Aboriginal women stood staring into the sky, oblivious, the twelfth time in just under a week they'd been shown off. The Lutheran Synod had insisted it would be inspirational for those in the south. It would give them the opportunity to see the Lutheran church at work: moving dynamically among those less fortunate, spreading the promise of salvation. Later, Flint would explain to Henry that he considered them a lost cause: lazy and ungrateful and, truth be known, doomed to extinction. Still, you did what you could. There was hope for the kiddies, some of them, if they could be removed and have the black bred out of them. The rest, those who weren't full of clap, could be fed and taught some useful habits.

‘Each of the ladies before you,' Flint began, ‘has accepted Christ into her life. Either myself or Pastor Kempe has baptised each one personally. To them, the Hermannsburg Mission has meant clothing, shelter, food and of course, God. It promises a brighter future for their kiddies.'

The Pastor prompted one of the girls to step forward. ‘Big fella in the sky,' she said. ‘He tells the Pastor what to do for us. We very thankful for our togs, and the Pastor's white sauce.'

Applause. Nathan looked at his father smiling, despite the fact that Henry had organised the event. At the end of the day, Nathan thought, Lutherans were all the same. Stripping down engines in a different order, killing pigs and pickling them according to different recipes, blitzkrieg or sitzkrieg, either way, harnessing their will to a cartful of cucumbers and pulling them towards the ends of the earth.