Only Killers and Thieves(68)

“We’re expected in Mulumba two days from now. Questions will be asked.”

“Of course they will. But what are the answers? Anything can happen out here, many a man has simply”—Noone twirled his fingers—“disappeared.”

The reverend glanced back at Matthew, worried his reins with his thumb.

“You know, I have my own copy of the Bible,” Noone said. He pulled the slim and ragged book from his pack and flapped it in the air. “I make a point of reading it every single day. Truly. All the stories and parables on how we should live—do you follow that advice, Reverend? Do you listen to what it says?”

“I . . . I do my best, yes.”

“The people in those stories, they always seem to be traveling. As you are. As are we. Then they come to a crossroads, a juncture, perhaps an unexpected meeting such as this, which will prove to be a defining moment in their lives. I believe that every man has these moments, whether he wishes for them or not. Do you believe in such things, Reverend Bean?”

“I believe that we are tested, and that we must—”

“So now I’m going to tell you a story. You might not have heard this particular story before, so I’d suggest you listen well. It concerns a holy man, much like yourself, who traveled all around the world telling people to follow God, telling them how good and benevolent God was, and how when they met Him, provided they had lived a noble and Christian life, He would bestow His virtue upon them.

“The holy man had no evidence for this. He had faith and that was all. Enough, he thought. God would protect and guide him. So he preached this same message to others: faith will see you through. One day the holy man found himself in the desert, in a cruel and dangerous land, only his boy with him; they were very much alone. They believed themselves shielded by God since they were doing God’s good work, but then lo! a stranger appeared before them on the plain. They talked, and as they talked the holy man judged the stranger and found him lacking in the eyes of the Lord. He held that he was dishonest, that he was evil, that Satan guided his hand. He was correct in this judgment, but also foolish. He underestimated the stranger. He disrespected him. With God at his side he believed himself immune to Satan’s reach. He was not immune. The stranger cut out his tongue. He removed his eyes and ears and stripped his clothing and sent him wandering naked across the land.

“Oh, and he killed the boy, also. Left his body for the dogs.

“So now the holy man wandered blindly through the desert, and as he wandered he prayed and prayed but God did not come. God did not listen. God did not help. After many days and nights the man was in such torment that he abandoned his faith and begged Satan for mercy, but Satan has no mercy; he should have known better than to ask. Eventually, the holy man reached a town where the people gave him shelter but Satan visited him in that town and every other place he went. He hunted him for eternity, wouldn’t let him rest, while God . . . God was never there. The stranger learned of the man’s family, whether in this land or over the seas, and he visited them also. His wife, his children, his parents who were very old.

“When finally the man died he hoped for salvation but he found that there was none. There was only the agony of death. He looked back on that meeting with the stranger and wished that he had understood. When the truth of it was, he had understood. He had understood all too well. But he’d believed himself higher than the stranger. He’d been arrogant enough to think that the words of a parchment best suited to wiping one’s hole could protect him on this earth, an arrogance which led him to question the stranger, to preach to him, to imply certain things about his character, leading the stranger to consider the holy man untrustworthy, to consider that perhaps he might speak ill of the stranger, to talk of their meeting with others; to conclude that the two of them were not friends.

“And although it was bad luck for the holy man that the stranger stood at Satan’s side, that is surely the chance you take, Reverend, is it not, when you decide to make an enemy of anyone you meet upon the empty Queensland plain?”

A long silence followed. Beneath his sunburn, the reverend had turned pale. He looked ready to vomit. His thumb stroked the leather rein, back and forth, back and forth again. The light wind ruffled his yellow hair and the shadows of the clouds slipped and swirled around him on the rutted ground.

“Quite a story, isn’t it?” Noone said.

The reverend answered breathlessly: “Yes, it is.”

“Might just be the most important story you’ve ever heard in your life.”

The reverend nodded.

“I like stories like that. Where the message is nice and clear.”

“Very clear.”

“Will you heed it, I wonder?”

“Yes, sir. Yes, I will. But, in all good conscience, I cannot tell you the location of the Kurrong if you mean to treat them ill.”

Noone smiled. “That’s alright, Reverend, you just have. On your way now.”

The reverend stood there blinking, his mouth hanging open. Noone motioned for him to remount his horse and he did so, though it took him three attempts to climb on. He looked from Noone to the others, surveyed the gathered men.

Noone inclined his head. “Safe journey. Godspeed.”

The reverend gave a mumbled reply, they walked their horses on, and all heads turned as they went by, the two groups watching each other like deckhands on ships that unexpectedly cross. Then the missionaries kicked their horses and were gone, and the party sat watching the dust trail floating on the breeze.